Regretful Etude
by Rachelle Lo
Summary: There is one measly little thing that makes coming to Earth worth it. Music.  ONE-SHOT.


A/N: Do not own Bartimaeus Trilogy, don't own _Shai'tan _(the Dark One from Wheel of Time) which I used as a curse in here, and I'm new to the fandom, so enjoy and critique! Also, I do play piano (in case you can't tell).

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Regretful Etude

* * *

There is one measly little thing that makes coming to Earth worth it. Music.

Call me a romantic. I don't care.

Due to my dear master's increased paranoia that I might be summoned by another magician (and henceforth happily spew his birth name), he tied me down to earth for _months _at a time. So I couldn't be summoned. (1)

[1. What didn't seem to occur to him was that I _might just _be more willing to spew if he did that. ]

That meant I spent weeks at a time, shut in his stupid house. I could almost swear Ptolemy's skin was getting paler from lack of sunlight.

"Ridiculous," I told that thought, but checked my arm anyway. Still dark-skinned. A glorious Egyptian tan. "And….I'm talking to myself. First sign of madness. I'm going insane, Nathaniel! I hope you're happy!" I shook my fist at the ceiling.

My dear master wasn't home at the moment, though. That meant his grand piano—which, by the way, he only bought for appearances; he couldn't play a miserable note—was all mine.

I hummed happily to myself and sat on the bench.

It had been horribly out of tune, that piano, when I first got to it. 'Course, Mandrake had never played it, so he wasn't surprised when one day the notes turned perfectly, sublimely pitched. That was the day I had gotten bored picking at the carpet.

I played one note. _C._

Down to A. Then up to E. A minor chord. I rolled it. Sad sound. That seemed right; that's about how I felt. Not _sobbing _sad, though, so I added a few (4) sharps and turned it major.

The sound turned sweet. I could've sworn my essence tingled.

Ptolemy's fingers were thin and limber, faultlessly suited for the piano had it been invented in his time. On a whim, I began to make a sonatina for him. Songs always came easier with emotions behind them. (2)

[2. For example, when Mandrake had "asked" me to do the laundry, re-paint the walls, and do things with bleach of which I'm still too scarred to speak, all in one day, the next day I composed a Gothic clashing concerto to make The Phantom tremble. It had involved much elbows. . .]

So I plucked the high notes, like a guitar, rain falling, feet splashing, river rolling, soft again. Add the left hand—bass—hit a supplementary chord, still gentle…

A pretty piece formed. Für Elise had nothing on this.

I bent over the piano, staring at the keys as I played them. Of course the music turned to grief; it always did. Embellished chords simplified to single notes. Music never lasted. Silence always took it. There was a message in there somewhere, _where_ I don't know, and anyway I didn't think it really applied to me. Mandrake could take a lesson, though.

But I didn't think about that. I thought about Ptolemy.

A regretful etude took place.

It was the only thing that made Earth redeemable, in my eyes.

I don't know how long I played. Hours, possibly. I had a lot to say, and for once I didn't have to open my chatty mouth to say it. A little quiet voice whispered inside my head: _Content. _This was the only thing I missed in the Other Place. There, the music only sounded inside my head.

It was late afternoon, shadows long across the piano, when Mandrake came back.

I didn't see him, much less hear him. I finally wound down Ptolemy's etude with a few trickling notes. I thought I might have cried if I had tear ducts. _Weird_. But still, my eyes itched.

The only warning I had was the sound of a throat clearing, and I whirled around. Mandrake leaned on the doorframe, hidden in the shadows. (3)

[3. Creepy magician habit. They seemed to be drawn to spider-infested dark pits of the world, like the opposite of a moth drawn to light. ]

"Uh. . .hey," I said eloquently.

White-lipped with fury, he strode across the room to the bench and clapped a hand on my shoulder. To my eternal shame, I let out a girly shriek. (4)

[4. Small, I assure you. More a feminine gasp.]

"Do you slime my possessions with your filthy demon fingers when I'm away on business?" he hissed. Not seeming to realize he was wearing a_ silver ring on the hand digging into my clavicle, _or more likely not caring, he leaned closer to Ptolemy's strained face. "I become the slightest bit lenient, and you dare take advantage of—_BE STILL!" _

Immediately I stopped squirming away from the silver ring. My essence was sizzling, I could almost smell it, certainly feel it.

"Mandrake," I said, "listen, your—"

"And _be silent_," Mandrake spat.

My mouth clamped shut. Good thing, too, no chance of a whimper then.

"In light of my successes with your assistance, demon, I have kept you away from the more dangerous missions. As your powers wane (5), I shelter you in my own home, when I could easily have sent you to you death in the light of what you _know. _A suicide mission is not uncommon for rebellious djinn. But have I? No. And _how _do I find you when I return? Besmirching my property. But what did I expect, since you are traitorous _demon spawn." _He said the word vindictively and frequently as his rant continued. Demon, demon, demon. Mandrake knew I hated the word. I was a _spirit_.

[5. Good thing I couldn't speak, because _boy _I had some choice words. Who was the reason I was so weak from spending too much time on Earth?]

I tuned him out and concentrated on my shoulder. I'd never known Mandrake to have such a hissy fit. He even started shaking Ptolemy's thin form, and eventually I realized he was asking me a question.

"_What do you have to say?"_

_Finally_. I considered which was the least profane of them all, and came up with: "You're wearing a _shai'tan _silver ring. And you can't play the piano anyway."

To my own surprise, my voice wasn't vehement, even with the ancient curses. Not angry. Soft, actually. Quiet. I quite scared myself—was I losing my touch? For good measure, I added a stanza of beauteous curses in Greek; he could understand _that_.

"Have you ever noticed how much 'demon' and 'human' sound alike?" I said. My shoulder hurt. I smirked for his benefit.

Mandrake's face went very white. He released me and turned away.

"Go," he said, teeth clenched. "Go to the corner, and sit. Before I do something I regret."

So I did. He went to his office. I hummed under my breath a snippet of a song, to commit it to memory.

* * *

For a second, Nathaniel had listened with wonder to the music coming from upstairs. For a second, Nathaniel felt something in the center of his chest melt and he _felt _the sorrowful sounds, the heartbreaking melody. Nathaniel went up the stairs quietly, so not to break the notes, expecting to see. . .he didn't know, a heartbroken man lamenting, a sad maiden playing her heart. . .fanciful images conjured up by the sound. . .

Mandrake froze what had melted inside of him. Barti—A. . .a. . ._demon _couldn't make music like that. He couldn't empathize with a demon. Fury took him. A demon couldn't. . .

_Couldn't. _


End file.
